


Gravity

by leogrl19



Category: Loren the Amazon Princess
Genre: F/F, I JUST...NEED THEM TO DO ALL THE THINGS, these two, throws hands
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-11
Updated: 2016-03-02
Packaged: 2018-05-19 15:56:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,582
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5973208
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leogrl19/pseuds/leogrl19
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>n. force of attraction</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Power

**Author's Note:**

> SUPER LATE to the LtAP party, but O-MAI-GLOB: Loren and Elenor — I can’t *EVEN*… their ‘will they/won’t they’ through the chapters SLAYED me. But then you get to ‘they will!’, and *fart noise*. It wasn’t even terrible, I just _ached_ for MORE. MORE dialogue; MORE interaction. Less of a rushed feeling. So, while I won’t be re-writing lake scene, I do want to dedicate this to all other poor souls like me, who played this ship again and again, magically hoping for something new to happen(it never does).
> 
> Rolling out healer/jokester Elenor. As much as I adore harem/spy ver, those ‘healing’ sessions with Loren’s leg are too good an opportunity to miss~

* * *

 

“Ma’am. I’ve arrived for your morning treatment.” A beat. Respectful. “May I enter?”

Elenor waits, as she always does, (a few paces away from the formidable flap of her mistress’ tent), cutting a persisting yawn, short, with the back of the hand not clutching her supplies. Their clandestine meets occur at the very hint of dawn—equal parts abject paranoia and obsession with privacy on her patient’s part—and she had miscalculated the effect of a designated watch so close to the hour of waking.

“You may.”

A terse, imposing tone.

She feels a shiver beyond the early morning chill.

Terror or _Anticipation_? The two always tangle in her throat.

The flap is peeled backward with halting, stumbling fingers—and she’s absorbed—the moment she ducks in, by the soft, salient coil of lavender. The tense muscles of her body, relax and clench, a lost and gained tension— _simultaneous_ (the properties of the plant? Or)her mistress reclined on a throne of pelts: armorless; a regal leg, made bare and presented.

“You’re,” Elenor blinks: the pose—the view, still _moves_ her, “prepared…”

An imperial brow. “We have done this several times, over; I believe it, the very least, to be prepared upon your arrival.” The Amazon raises her chin, features swiftly souring. “Is there a problem?”

“Ah — not at all.” What lies between—that her princess was ready because she looked _forward_ to _this_ : wanted a moment; another, just between them—is tucked away; instead, the elf’s mouth turns. She moves further in. “I prefer it, in fact. Anything to avoid a repeat performance of my spectacular failure to catch you.”

The joke backfires. Serves only to remind her of the precarious position they found themselves in, a few short nights, before: the molding of chests; a knee grazing her mistress’ thigh;

_vulnerable, blue eyes_ …

“You’re flushed.” (Instinct.) Her fingers already reach; press against the tender flesh of the other woman’s forehead. “Do you have a fever?”

Brows crinkle against her palm. “You are too forward.”

But, her hand isn’t removed.

Elenor reigns in a smirk; places her free hand over her own forehead and gauges. “Most, are, in my line of work. You would not believe the stubbornness of wounded warriors.” Both hands are retracted. “There is a princess, in particular…”

Loren scowls. “There were tales among my sisters, of a healer who remained unrelenting in her methods and instruction. Despite being a slave.” Soft (softer than it’s ever _been_ )… Reluctant. As if the other wished to deny its **truth** ; claim:  ‘once, but not now’…. “Having the opportunity to experience it firsthand, I now know their frustrations.”

“But, you also know the results.” She kneels, an agile transition to access the supplies she set down, earlier; loosens leather ties and unfurls the bundle of cloth. “I remember, well, the compliment I received from her Majesty, upon our first meeting.” A stock is taken of various ingredients, by touch, alone. “‘Competent’, I believe, the word was.”

The Amazon glances away — and maybe she, too, thought on how long ago that seemed. “Do not let it go to your head.”

“Perish the thought.”

There is a huff of mild irritation (pride, than anything else) — and, it’s there, again: _terror_ and _anticipation_. Perhaps, she is a masochist, being so casual with a member of royalty, even with her elevated position—becoming used to this feeling; tempting… that sharp, unerring line.

When they are alone, there is an _ease_ ; an intimacy, so fragile, she dares not lend it to words.

“Shall I begin?” A courtesy. One Elenor gives each time. A final due before her fingers touch her, again.

Blue orbs, more brilliant than sapphire, take her in: the **look** she can never decipher; the stare that sanctions lightening and _heat_ and broken syllables…

“Yes.”

the column of her throat, trembles.

And Elenor has to restrain the shiver—subdue the tremor in her fingertips… hesitate. _Reach_ —

**_Contact_**.

A shared exhalation — a shared _relief_ …

(It does not **_lessen_**.)

**Want**. Made audible.

The Amazon sighs; shudders, with flickering, closed lids,

She has to _look_ _away_

…Regain:

(a pinched lip)

Herself.

—Healer. She is a healer. She is a healer — and the leg before her requires her full diligence.

She will **not** lose another mistress to illness or injury.

Her hands (she is confident enough, now, to use both from the start), follow the habitual path up sun-kissed skin:

the slope of her foot; the arch of her heel;

the shallow dips of her ankle;

the sculpted swell of her calf;

Pressing and probing with practiced touches, to find where weakness lied.

A sharp inhalation.

“Did that hurt?” Elenor returns to the underside of her knee, lifts and tests the juncture warily; it is difficult to measure response, when closed eyes and pulled brows, were given from the beginning—she must rely on inquiry. “The area does appear slightly inflamed…”

“It’s fine.” _Clenched_ teeth. “Move on.”

The command is ignored: a willful surge of magic is concentrated on the ligaments, the elf, once again, amazed the other could keep her regular pace with the sheer level of trauma. “While I do know how much you _cherish_ these sessions, much of this could have been avoided if you had brought this to my attention, sooner.” A careful flex; another. “It is painful; watching you enduring this.”

Loren turns—features darkening… before facing her, proud obstinacy burning in her eyes. “I…” pursed lips, “apologize.”

The concession, (almost a hiss, but tamed to be more) _hits_ her, as it always does—the same _shock_ ; the familiar  _awe_ —

Before:

_Appreciation_.

_Warmth_ ….

( **Selfishness** : where those apologies are only for _her_ …)

Elenor nods, not trusting her voice to carry it. “I’m just as at fault. I suspected your leg hadn’t recovered after the fight in Hammerhands… but, my own lack of will, made me wait days before approaching you. I worried more on repercussions, than your well-being.” A self-depreciating smile; it a lapse of loyalty she doubts she’ll forgive any time soon. “Beyond that: this level of injury would not have occurred at all, if I had been more competent, at your side.” 

“Enough.” She can only gape helplessly at the stern visage before her. “It is because you were at my side, that this is all the injury I harbor. It was… foolhardy to think I could charge the Keep, alone.” Hesitation—but she finds herself admiring her mistress, yet again: another show of willingness to concede a personal failing. “You reconcile my errs in judgment; and there is no greater confidence, in battle, than having you near.”

“You,” her lip quivers — and she _feels_ the heat conquering her cheeks, “ _honor_ _me_ , Majesty…”

Loren nods, as she did earlier (is her voice unreliable, as well?), and there is a _softness_ … before, the unfortunate, unavoidable ‘Awkward’ that seems to find them, more and more, often — and Elenor reminds herself **why** she’s here.

“How is the salve working?” She(manages to curb the stammer)moves from her mistress’ knee, not satisfied, but knowing there, only so much time. “Any pain, afterwards? Discomfort?”

Silence. Then, “The pain has lessened. There is,” a tightened jaw; _effort_ , “some fatigue and numbness. After walking extended periods.”

“Hm…” the elf’s middle finger and thumb actively survey the muscles of her thigh, “I’ll add something to increase blood flow. Maybe some ashwagandha, as well—that should help with the fatigue…” careful, precise movements; her mind _whirs_ : more applicable plant variations; more effective shifts in dosage… Until she notices blue eyes upon her; an openly— _rare_ —displayed crook of the lips.

A breath. “Ma’am?”

“I am unaccustomed to this side of you: serious; muttering, excitably, under your breath…” there is mirth— _mirth_ —in her gaze, “To think, I would meet the master healer Breza spoke so highly of.” Elenor is dumbfounded; that smirk seems only to _twitch_ with more satisfaction—before ebbing. “I do not need to be coddled. And I would have you waste no more time, on this, than absolutely necessary—not when you have your other duties.”

_Ah_. “It concerns you. I do not mind.”

There is a marked blink—a wavering of the lips—before the Amazon’s features hardened, once more. “My second-in-command—”

“Should be the most attentive.” A smile. Soft. “You trust your life to me on the field of battle—why, should you not, outside of it?” She is truly pushing her luck, interrupting her future queen's words as she did; her body dips in a slight bow. “My role is to make sure you are at your best. To protect you; even, if, from yourself.”

Loren swallows—looks away. Fingers gripping the fur beneath her.

The action almost

… _submissive_.

Elenor inhales — another arc of _lightening_.

…It felt, ( _more_ and _more_ ) her princess would acquiesce—where, once, she would be met with a cold, unyielding glare. An abrupt end to any discussion.

It—

_Impertinent_.

Surely,

_Arrogance_.

But. She feels a sense of **_power_** :

As if only her words hold _sway_ ….

“Where does it ail you most?” Elenor swallows thickly, not expecting the husky _rasp_ that left her.

A hand is suddenly on top of her own, grasping — pulling, gently… to the side of her thigh.

“Here.”

_Blue_ : Steady. Unblinking.

The elf’s fingers tremble—she cannot _help it_ —(the smooth, lulling warmth threatens to consume her very _mind_ ) as she focuses, focuses— ** _focuses_** , on calling healing magic.

Loren shudders before her, a low, keen sound (almost the very air), catching in her throat—

Her fingers arch, involuntarily,

A _gasp_.

Elenor retracts her hands, quickly — shifts several paces backward;

bows _low_.

“Forgive me, mistress: I’ve overlooked the time. The others will be waking soon.” A thin stream of sunlight pierces the tent’s floor in a brilliant, bold streak; she does not look up to see the expression on the Amazon’s face. “I believe that should be sufficient for today’s session. Please use the salve before putting on your armor; I will have an improved equivalent ready by the morrow.”

A striking silence.

Her heart **_pounds_** in her ears…

“Dismissed.”

Another bow—(she does not wait for anything more): Elenor gathers her supplies — stands to her feet — ignores the _red_ ; the glimpse of flushed, heated skin—before slipping from her mistress' tent without another word.


	2. Weakness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kinda digging the idea of having this become a sort of, 'healing sessions' series. It's just so darned *attractive*... HRM. Well: we'll see if it any more inspiration strikes.
> 
> Anyhoo: Loren's POV. Had to get into both of their heads, at the VERY _least_.

* * *

 

“You served in the healer’s quarters from a young age.”

Loren watches Elenor blink—surprised, at the proclamation, at being addressed, those brown eyes parting—reluctant, from her leg, to find her own.

Her face is steel. (There, is, a frenzy — a _stirring_ — **_heat_** ; in the depths of her abdomen, whenever their eyes strike. And she cannot accept the _weakness_ — the _want_ … for the other’s voice….)

“Yes, ma’am.”

She nods, hoping to mask the tremble of her throat as the elf’s hands, still; rest on top of her knee. “It is rare for someone found outside the Citadel to hold such an esteemed position.” It is _absurd_ ; by all counts. But, that only makes the feat more commanding. “The others looked to you as ‘head healer’, did they not?”

“Ah;” her second retracts a hand (the loss is _immediate_ ) to scratch at her cheek, smiling stiltedly, “perhaps, Breza oversold me at the time. There is an official, Amazon, head healer; I, simply, assisted her on the more urgent cases.”

Creased brows—it is too often, the other reducing her own ability. “I have never known Breza to exaggerate: If she claimed you were the primary source of healing in the Citadel’s clinic, then I am inclined to believe her.”

In all truth, she finds herself inspired; it is an appealing enough tale: effort, well-rewarded—no matter the lot of the recipient.

(Beneath, lies **bias** : _attraction_ to a woman she finds, increasingly, _remarkable_ … Beyond sound judgment.)

There is an added tug to the other’s lips: one she is all but too familiar with. “Speaking of Breza,” twinkling, amused eyes, “were you aware she possesses the _cutest_ crush on you?”

“ _What_?” It takes her completely by surprise. The captain of the guard? Her service was commendable, but the approach taken toward her queen’s disappearance, had been utterly _lacking_.

Elenor simply smirks. “It’s true. So much so, she’s determined to destroy what little life I have, because of it.” A sigh. “Well; you did say you had plenty of admirers…”

Her confusion only soars—but now, there is **anger**. “She takes it out on you?”

“I’m the competition.”

Loren’s eyes widen; her tongue is useless and slow. “I… That. Is preposterous.”

The elf nods, agreeing readily. “Believe me: I asserted the same — along with it not being such a terrible thing, being your third. Less likely to die by beheading.”

She finds her eyes narrowing—but it’s instinct—it lacks _fervor_ , the idea, _alone_ ( _Elenor_ _and_ …), leaving her, _shaken_.

“I—wondered why she treated you so insolently, without cause…” the pieces fall into place, as she thinks back on past encounters; her features darken. “If she allows personal feelings to so mar her judgement, then I am only more certain I made the right choice.”

Elenor smiles (and it is the same _frenzy_ …). “I will live up to those words.”

Loren shifts her gaze—hunts for anything **not** _her_ —calling upon her breeding as Amazon royalty: **strict** and **unyielding** … before meeting their eyes, again. “Your role as a central healer.” The smile dims. “It could not have been a simple thing, learning such an art, so young—no matter how useful.”

"The same, could be said, of you and swordplay…" Loren bristles—an Amazon was **born** for the sword—the other _insults_  her… Elenor looks to the distance, the other side of the tent; smiles(—and, she knows there was no **intent** ). “It was not.” Those hands stir—as if reminded, resuming their evaluation. “But, the alternative was exceedingly worse; so I considered that motivation.” Fingers test the range of motion of her foot. “It also did not hurt that I was genuinely interested in such things—even at that age.”

“In herbs and poultices?” It is a strange interest for a child, no matter how one looked at it.

… A lag—a pause; there is no immediate answer. And the slight furrow in the other’s brow, tells, she’s delved something intimate.

There is a brief scrimmage in her mind — did she go too far? But she is of higher rank(But the other woman _matters_ ).

“My parents were murdered by orcs; before the Amazons rescued me.” Loren curbs the surprise at the sudden press (how _long_ does it take, until a person can say **that** , in a single breath? More than _once_?)—forward; nods silently. “…I never felt as helpless as in that moment.” Elenor stares at a spot on her shin: seeing; not seeing. “The only thing that comes close…is not being able to quell my former mistress’ illness. That _failing_.” Another heavy pause; those dark brows _pinch_. “The thought of being able to prevent that from happening, again…” her lips, _twitch_ at the corners — but it is so _far_ from what was given, before—it feels like an _imposter_. “Maybe. A part of me thinks, it, atonement; knowing, my current self, might possibly have been able to save them.”

“Elenor.” Brown eyes shift from her leg—to her. “Nothing worthy lies at the end of that path.”

A beat. A nod:

“Yes, mistress.”

The formality makes her _wince_.

Silence.

Loren bites her lip, watching the other woman slip back into the inscrutable mode of **healer**. “Elenor…”

“Ma’am?”

It is a swift, proper response, but the suddenness of it—the meet of their eyes—leaves her _floundering_ ; the name, so natural…she did not think of what would come, _after_.

“I—” her mouth wavers with failed words. “It was not my intention to upset you.”

“ _Another_ apology? I could get used to this…” She feels her temper flare — (how _dare_ she?)—before, the elf smiles again, the _softness_ , quelling her anger before it could even ignite. “There’s no need for you to worry about that.”

(Yet, she **does** )It is unnerving, the _rush of relief_ , that fills her. “I see;” the ‘courtesy' is still foreign—she has never _cared_ to be careful. “I. Have another question.”

“About my family?” A slow nod. “I don’t mind.”

“Before: you mentioned the importance of those bound to you by blood.” The other had disagreed at the time (a concept, with which, she is still unfamiliar—but she doesn’t _hate_ it); claimed strength lied in familial bonds. “Do you… ‘miss them’?”

She realizes that she is only trespassing further, but cannot _help_ but want to know. The concept… she recognizes it, peripherally — but parents offering their lives to protect offspring whom could not yet defend themselves; it was a _good_ death.

One worthy of **honor**. Not _grief_.

“I think… I miss the idea of them.” There is a tearing _bittersweet_ to her tone. “I wasn't old enough; to know anything else.”

“You have become strong, outside their influence.” The elf is a force to be reckoned with; she knows few as capable with bow and blade on the field of battle, and none she’d rather have at her side. “They would be proud.”

Another smile. “I still don’t think relying on others, is weakness.” The motions pause. Elenor directs all focus to _her_. “You came to trust me; even when we barely knew each other. Even when I was a slave.” Loren feels the dip in her mood—synonymous with the derogatory term; a mixture of _contempt_ and **_guilt_** (how long, since _she_ used the term?) that burns her throat. “That didn’t turn out too badly.”

“You were insufferable.” But there is a turn to her lips.

“I was your _counterpoint_.” A gentle rebuttal. “It’s a crucial job. When people saw the big Amazon with the scary glare, I was the plucky elf who broke the ice with well timed quips — several, at which you laughed or smiled, by the way.”

She doesn’t counter—

She _can’t_.

The bond she formed with the other woman is a mutation—it was too _quick_ ; too _expedient_ , how she came to rely on her. How, with _every decision_ , she seeks the other’s opinion….

At first, she labeled it mere familiarity: She was not used to the strange, _bewildering_ customs of foreign lands, confounded with things she had never witnessed—let alone, imagined—and the elf was a thing, familiar. _Known_. A solitary link to **home**.

Until;

it became _more_ common _—(second nature_ ),to glance behind; need and _want_ for an opinion — a “counterpoint”:

‘What would _Elenor_ think?’

‘How would _Elenor_ handle this?’

‘Would _Elenor_ approve?’

“…Ma’am?”

The voice jolts her; she looks up to see concerned brown orbs. “I. Have not had many confidants.” She has had none. There was always a stigma of vulnerability; there is always the difference in role: she is heir to the Citadel throne—she must be better; _higher_. “I, have, at times, wondered;” she swallows past memories; _aches_ , “what it would be like. To have a companion of comparable standing.”

“You were lonely.”

The word causes her face to contort — as if she’s been _slapped_ : a mechanism to what the entirety of her people, considered, ‘ _weakness_ ’—before, she bites her tongue.

…It isn’t an **attack**.

It’s:  _Elenor_.

“I…” her jaw flexes, “Perhaps.”

Spit out like _poison_.

Elenor freezes; brows hiking to dusky bangs…before bowing. “I may overstep, Majesty; I know you have assured we were not friends.” Another wince; will she _ever_ conquer this _cowardice_? “I will not forget our roles—my vow to serve. But.” Tightened fists; her shoulders square. “As your second: I want to be that person.” The elf braves the meet of their eyes. “For you to never know ‘lonely’, if I am near.”

Her hand is under the other’s chin(soft; _electric_ ) before she realizes it, propping her head. “Then address me by name.”

 _Please_ ….

Those brown orbs widen: _surprise_ — dart, back and forth, between her own; _gauging_. Assenting. “Loren…”

 ** _Reaction_** ; her mind _trembles_ …

Her free hand _reaches_ —

 ** _Stops_**.

 _Shakes_ …

What is this _sickness_ that claims her?

Is this what her mother felt—(is it weakness in the _blood_?) With the slave who strayed closest to her?

She is not naive. Affections, well, between those who spend time together; who enter battle together; _bleed_ together…

(There are plenty of her companions whom she _respects_ —)

But she’s never felt **this**.

This…

 ** _Madness_** …

Loren looks away — away from those _eyes_. It seems all too plausible—too _effortless_ — _inevitable_ … that she will lose to them;

Give this woman _whatever she wants_.

Her hand retracts:

“We will stop here. The hour grows late.” She manages it with a stern tone, but she is keenly aware that each session extends longer than the last.

(She wishes to talk to the woman for the sake of _talking_ —

 _Ludicrous_.)

“Understood.” Elenor bows; backs away to examine her leg. “It is healing well. The new salve seems to be working.” A smirk. “Soon, you will not need me at all.”

It is startling—the _panic_ , that rises within, at the loss of something, she once, thoroughly dismissed. “There is still fatigue with long distances; I will have you come until I am satisfied.” (Was it _convincing_?)She crosses her arms. “I would not suffer such sessions, just to endure them anew.”

The smirk tempers, but the other woman still looks far too smug for her liking. “Very wise. You must have a wonderful healer.” Those eyes twinkle. “Loren.”

 ** _Heat_**. “Prepare yourself for today’s tasks, Elenor.”

Lingering mirth. “Ma’am.”


End file.
